


Infernal Conception

by Depraved_Maniac



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 19:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16816552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Depraved_Maniac/pseuds/Depraved_Maniac
Summary: Michael Langdon has arrived at the Outpost and you find yourself vying to secure your place at The Sanctuary. You're willing to do almost anything to secure your future. Almost. Though the world has changed, you have not. You're dedicated to your beliefs and refuse to compromise your innocence to gain favor, which is exactly why Michael wants you. As the last virgin on Earth, you've been chosen to serve a purpose that threatens everything you stand for.You're a good girl. You really are. The problem is that Michael Langdon makes you want to do very bad things.





	Infernal Conception

You don’t trust the visitor.

You don’t respect the way he shatters the Outpost’s monotony with the promise of sanctuary for some, and damnation for the unworthy. You don’t like the pressure of meeting his unknowable expectations or the way those expectations can be felt in his piercing, leonine gaze.

You don’t like that he _sees_ you. You’d grown accustomed to blending in with the background over the long months. You diligently perform the tasks expected of your rank as a Gray. You do not step out of line, you do not draw a curious eye. Your life has been reduced to being a servile shadow to those more privileged. Your pride is wounded, but it is a small price to pay for the promise of safety. That’s how the game is played.

Until now.

Michael Langdon was here to revise the rules and turn the current order on its purple and gray head, and there was nothing you could do but bite your nails and hope you said just the right thing to please him.

_Please him_ , you scoff. You glare at your reflection, annoyed with how normal subservience has become to you. You hold your gaze in search of the confident spark of a young woman who’d once been proudly self-assured, determined and outspoken. A woman that was forced to take a step back under the new world order. A woman tucked away, indefinitely sleeping.

_For me_ , you amend. _For The Sanctuary._ You untangle your hair from its ridiculous topknot and comb through the tangles with your fingers. You groan as you massage the soreness from your scalp.

You begin to strip off your gray garb. The shapeless dress and dirty apron pool at your feet. Chill sweeps over your skin, and you are quick to pull on the dress you save for special occasions. The white cotton is soft against your skin. The waist is fitted, the hem falling just below your knees. You admire the sweep of the neckline below your collarbone and take a moment to unreservedly appreciate your reflection. It’s been so long since you felt pretty.

You brush your wavy hair behind your shoulders and bite the red back into your lips. Your cheeks are already mottled with your nerves.

You don’t trust the visitor, and he probably doesn’t trust you. The interview is your one opportunity to give him reason to. Give him _something_ if it means ascertaining your safety. You’d do anything to ensure your future. Well...almost.

Your eyes fall to the peek of cleavage exposed by the loose garment and you self-consciously pull it back up. With quiet fingers, you adjust the chain of the gold crucifix lying against your clavicle, making sure your modesty is hinted in a way that spares you from having to draw any awkward boundaries.

_It’s an interview, not an audition._ You inhale deeply, exhale slowly, and try to muster the courage required to leave your room.

Your steps are slow, yet purposeful, as you make your way along the servant’s corridor, down the staircase, past the library, around a corner and down another hall until you find yourself at a bulky, dark wood door. Your hand is trembling as you raise your fist to knock. However, before your knuckles have a chance to rap against the door, it slides open. You hesitate just before stepping inside.

You anticipate him to be standing on the other side of the threshold, waiting with a calculative gaze. What you find is an empty room, lit by a dozen wax candles. A fire crackles in the stone fireplace. Its flickering light makes the shadows in the room contort in a way that is unsettling. The air in here is stuffy as you step further inside. You can feel it cling to your skin, leaving it balmy.

When the doors behind you close, you turn to face them. The voice in your ear is spoken from behind. “You’re late.”

You gasp at the unexpected presence at your shoulder and stumble a few steps away. Your hand is pressed over your heart to keep it still.

Langdon is watching you with patient passivity, leaving you to believe his words were not meant as a reprimand. Regardless, he’s made it clear that he’s keeping track of your missteps. He’s moved the first chess piece. The game has begun, and it’s your move.

“I still got here first,” you counter. Your words are childish. Before you have time to regret your impulse to be argumentative, you notice Langdon’s lip curl. He likes the less docile side of you. Good. You straighten your posture to regain the appearance of composure though the feeling of it seems to have fled the moment you felt him breathe against your ear. “So, how are we going to do this?”

He just barely tilts his head. His strong brows crease and draw a shadow over his eyes that somehow manages to heighten their penetrative intensity. “Do what?”

Now you wish you’d bitten your tongue, because you don’t know how to answer him when he’s looking at you as if he’s read you for the umpteenth time and he’s _bored_. How can you continue this show of confidence when you no longer have the backbone needed to maintain it? “Aren’t you going to ask me questions?”

“Has someone told you I would?”

You shake your head. “I haven’t spoken to anyone. That would be cheating.”

“ _Good_ girl.” He says this with mocking adulation to drive home how unimpressed he is by your virtuousness.

You flush, embarrassed with the way he’s making you feel ashamed for doing the right thing. Heat is in your cheeks and neck, and you curse the way your body betrays how easily he can make you uncomfortable. The telltale reaction only worsens as he steps closer until he’s looming before you. Instinct is screaming for you to flee, but you hold your ground, lift your chin and meet his eyes.

Looking at him is like looking at the sun. His beauty is the sort that demands attention. You find yourself conscious of him, whether you want to be or not. You _have_ to look at him. It feels mandatory that you admire the sharp cut of his jawline, his hooded sapphire gaze, the fullness of his mouth and the fall of his gold hair. He is the morning star that rises to put the glory of the sky to shame. You’re compelled to marvel, though his image leaves you burning.

“The world is no longer a place where your moral integrity will earn you the brownie points to get you where you want. Those were someone else’s rules.” His gaze drops to the pendant of Christ hanging from your neck before returning to you, amused. “Not mine.”

You don’t like the suggestive implication in his tone. You dislike even more how you react to it, a very different sort of heat now tingling across your skin. “What are your rules?”

“That’s the best part: there aren’t any.”

Concern crinkles between your brows as you try to comprehend what he’s saying.

“Anything is fair game. However,” he begins to slowly circle you as he speaks. “If you lie, I will know. If you hedge, I will know. And if you try to trick me, I will know, and this interview will be over, and you will die here painfully.” He pauses at your shoulder, his mouth once more at your ear and his breath hot against your neck. “Are we clear?”

Your heartbeat would give a hummingbird’s wing a run for its money. “Those sound like rules to me.”

You can hear the amusement in the purr of his voice. “Merely preferences. You are allowed to lie to me, you are allowed to avoid my questions and you are allowed to attempt to fool me, just as I, in turn, am allowed to kill you for it.”

“Does that mean I am allowed to kill you?”

“You’re allowed to try.” He returns to his place before you, his long hair casting half his face in shadow. “Do you want to?”

“No. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone.”

“Not even the one responsible for ending the world?”

You don’t understand the significance of what feels like a pointless conversation, but he looks to be waiting for your answer. “Would revenge change anything? Anyway, whoever is responsible for this is probably dead along with everyone else.”

“And if they weren’t?”

You are unable to determine what he’s alluding to. “And if they weren’t, would I want to kill them?” He watches as you consider the question. You move your eyes to the fireplace as you think. Your fingers come up to toy with your necklace as you recall the memories of your family, your friends, your home, and how they were stolen from you forever. A second of reminiscing is all you allow yourself, because you know how much you’re capable of handling before you begin to feel your eyes sting. You already know you miss them, just as you already know this new life is merely a weed compared to the bouquet of possibilities promised by your old one. “Can I give a complicated answer?”

“You can give an honest answer.”

“I don’t think killing them would be my first impulse. I’d need to know why they did it.”

Langdon’s expression remains unreadable. “You would bother to put the harbinger of the Apocalypse on trial?”

“Not because I think there’s any way for them to defend what they did, but…” You hesitate, frustrated to find the right words to express such a complicated sentiment. “I doubt their motivation for ending the world had anything to do with my family or my friends. The people I cared about were victims, but they weren’t _targets_. For me to feel so vengeful as to kill someone, my anger would have to come from a personal place.” You finally return your eyes to his and have the gall to shrug your shoulder. “And I just can’t be expected to take the Apocalypse personally.”

Langdon laughs. It is neither mocking nor patronizing. The sound echoes around the stone chamber, unexpectedly pleasant and rich. For a sliver of a moment, he is reachable, and you manage to glimpse the boy that exists inside the enigmatic man.

“Such a strong sense of justice,” he says when his laughter calms. “You really are a good girl, aren’t you? Tell me, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

You shake your head. “I don’t remember.”

“I thought I made it clear there’d be no lying?” He chastises.

It no longer feels like you’re on equal footing. He’s staring down the straight line of his nose at you, the set of his mouth taught. You’re being told off like you’re a child, but this time you suspect that it isn’t a simple spanking you’ll get. No standing in a corner, no hand-written apology. You bite your lip as cold rinses through you. You’re afraid of what’s coming. You’re afraid he’s going to hurt you.

“Get on your knees.”

Your eyes snap to his. There’s ice in your veins. You’re terrified of where this might be going. You frantically search his face for any hint that what he has planned is meant to violate as much as punish. “What? Why?”

“To confess.” His hand grips your shoulder, just firm enough to pressure you down. Understanding that you have the option to either play along or forfeit the game, you lower yourself to your knees before him.

The stone floor is unforgiving below your naked knees and you grimace as your bones grind. You grip your skirt to quell the trembling in your fingers, and glare at his polished shoes. You know why he’s having you take this position. You know it has everything to do with the cross around your neck. He’s mocking you, and you can only hope that’s all he plans to do.

You refuse to let your imagination take you to where this could be headed. You refuse to feed into your fear. “I’ve done some things, but nothing worth mentioning. Nothing stands out.”

“You can’t expect me to believe that,” he says from above. “Not from a girl like you.”

“A girl like me?”

He crouches before you. You flinch when his hand settles beneath your chin and forces your eyes to meet his. Your faces are mere inches apart. He’s so close, you can feel him breathing against your mouth. You expect to be frightened, but it isn’t fear that simmers low in your belly as you stare into eyes that share their color with the same sky you thought you’d seen the last of the day the world came to an end.

“Young, pretty, rich,” his other hand caresses the crucifix at your throat, “devout. You are the recipe for a rebellious stage.”

His hands are gone from you now, but he’s still too close for you to think clearly. You know he’s not asking to hear about that one time you stole candy from the grocery store when you were five, or the time you egged the house of a girl from school because she made fun of your new haircut. The problem is that you don’t have much to confess. You never thought you’d find yourself in a situation where you were repenting for not having more of a wild streak.

“Nothing?” He presses, his gaze searching yours.

You know he’s waiting for some kind of response from you, but you’re not paying attention to what’s being said anymore. He smells like cinder and cinnamon. If you closed your eyes, you could easily imagine being back home with your family, seated around the firepit in the backyard. You loved sitting out with them late into the night, just talking around a warm fire and sipping cinnamon tea. This smell is nostalgic and warm. You want to bury yourself in it.

You snap to the moment you feel the softness of his lapel beneath your fingertips. You freeze when you realize how close you’ve leaned in, your mouth but a hairsbreadth away from his. Your eyes sweep to his to find that he doesn’t look surprised by your actions. There isn’t a trace of the smugness you expect to see from someone who considers you predictable. He’s simply patient as he continues to walk you through this exchange.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, pulling away from him.

“Are you?”

Again, he is waiting for your answer. Challenging you in all the ways that make you uncomfortable. You cannot help but to drop your eyes to his mouth. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, having such thoughts at such an inopportune time, but you can’t stop them. He’s so close and his warmth and smell are all you can focus on. You shake your head, feeling your face flame.

His lip curls as if he’s pleased with himself for being right. When he stands to put space between you, you feel that draw for him dissipate like two weak magnets drawn too far apart. “There is no need to apologize for doing what you want, as long as you are prepared to accept the consequences.”

“I didn’t realize what I was doing,” you explain. It’s important that he knows you would never resort to using your body to get what you want.

“I know,” he assures you smoothly. He comes to stand before you again, and raises his hand back to your face. This time his fingers drag against your cheek and pause at the corner of your lips. His eyes are on them as he speaks. “It’s your nature, given what you are. It would be hypocritical of me to judge you for it.”

Immediately, you take offense. You turn your head away from his hand and glare up at him. “My nature? You mean, as a woman?”

He smiles at your indignation, and crouches before you again. His voice is velvet. “As a virgin.”

Your skin blisters with embarrassment, your heart kickstarting to an impossible speed. “How do you know?”

“Lucky guess,” he purrs, and his fingers snag against your crucifix as he moves his hand over your flying heartbeat.

You understand that you should be against him touching you with such familiarity, but you can’t bring yourself to push him away. With reluctance, you admit that you _like_ the feel of his hands against your skin. Despite what he’s saying, it isn’t because you’re a virgin that you’re responding so strongly to his touch. It’s _him_. Everything about him is magnetic. He’s impossible to resist, as if he were tailor-made to suit your preferences.

“Are you saving yourself?”

He asks this with no hesitancy. He knows you’ll answer him. It’s this certainty of his that makes answering so easy, despite your shyness. “I am, but I don’t think it matters anymore.” He looks at you to explain. You can feel the dullness of your smile. “I don’t see marriage in my future.”

He offers a small laugh and drops his hand away from your skin. “None of the other survivor’s have caught your eye?”

The suggestion is absurd enough to make you laugh a little. The people you’ve been holed up with these past few months are tolerable, at _best_. Most of the time, you can’t suffer the sound of their breathing, never mind their constant bickering and whining. “They’re not my type.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I’m not begging.”

“No, not yet.” The words are a promise veiled in ambiguity. He takes your hand and pulls you up from the floor. He doesn’t let go as he leads you towards the fireplace where he invites you to take a seat on the brickstone beside him. “What is your type?”

You shake your head, at a loss. “Is this part of the interview?”

“If I am asking, then it is fair to assume that it is.”

“You ask everyone these questions?”

“I ask each of you exactly what I wish to know.”

You’re seated so close to him that your hips are touching. You know this nearness is purposeful on his part, but you’re too captivated by him to put space between you. You try to justify it to your conscience with weak excuses about how long it’s been since you last felt the warmth of another person so directly. You know it’s more than that. You can’t stop thinking about his overly-familiar hands.

“Why do you want to know? Are you running a matchmaking service for The Sanctuary?” It’s a lame attempt at being funny, but you kind of want to make him laugh again. You’re disappointed that it doesn’t work.

“Even if I were, you wouldn’t benefit from it.”

The comment is oddly definitive. You sense that there’s something you’re missing. Something that has everything to do with you and your future. “Why?”

“That’s classified. As for _why_ I want to know this...let’s just say, I’m curious.”

You have to look away from him in order to collect your thoughts. This is only marginally helpful; you can look away, but there is little you can do about the intoxicating way he smells or the press of him against you.

“Let me think,” you request, sifting through your memories for the faces of all the boys you’d once liked and hoping to find some sort of pattern that will satisfy Langdon and put an end to this inane topic. “Well, my ex-boyfriend was tall, brunette, and--”

“What did he do to you?” Langdon interrupts.

You avoid his eyes. “Why do you think he did something to me?”

“ _Don’t_ hedge,” he reminds you with softened authority. His fingers return to your chin and he forces your eyes back to his. If you were to just barely lean in, your noses would touch. “Did he try to fuck you?”

The crassness of the word makes you cringe. You swallow past the distaste the memory of your ex-boyfriend has left in your mouth. “Maybe.”

Annoyance fractures his carefully managed indifference. You can feel it in the fingers he has digging into your jaw. “Either commit to answering me, or we end this.”

The memories are near enough for them to still draw anger. You don’t want to think about your ex-boyfriend and all the ways he tried to manipulate you into going too far. “He tried to convince me that I could give him oral and stay a virgin.”

Langdon remains distantly unsurprised. “Did you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

His thumb drags below your lower lip and you resist the urge to taste it. Again, you don’t know what’s come over you. It’s like you’re under a spell. You’re intoxicated, drunk on the smell and heat emanating from him. With every passing minute, you feel the locked grip you have on your restraint loosening.

“Tell me more,” he demands. “What else did he do?”

“He touched me.” You’re so embarrassed that you feel the heat in your face creep into your eyes, glazing them.

Langdon’s fingers are at your neck, tracing the chain of your necklace. He slowly lifts his eyes to yours with the covetous air of an apex predator. His voice is silken. “Did you like it when he touched you?”

You swallow around the lump that is denial in your throat. The good girl in you is desperate to voice it, but the man in front of you will not permit it. Not again.

“You can tell me,” he coaxes gently. “No one can hear you here. Not even God.”

The Lord’s name is profane coming from this silver-tongued angel. It leaves your stomach fluttering. Your voice is barely a whisper. “Sometimes I liked it.”

His barely-there smile is back. He’s pleased with you. “When?”

“When he’d sneak into my room,” you reply, your breath tight.

Langdon’s smile is borderline tender, as if he’s endeared. “You like the idea of getting caught doing something you shouldn’t. A Catholic schoolgirl who will regularly get on her knees for a man,” he purposefully drops his eyes to your pendant, “just not the one who loves her.”

Of everything he’s said so far, you take the most offense to _this_. “He didn’t love me.”

“Would you have let him fuck you if he did?”

Your gaze hardens. The heat in your cheeks burns for a different reason. “I told you I’m saving myself.”

Langdon’s lionlike gaze is unapologetic. “You seem like you could be convinced.”

You understand why he thinks this. Not once tonight have you slapped his hands away or given him any reason to think you are against it. If you’re still being honest, you _aren’t_ against the touching. In fact, you find yourself hoping for a little more of it. What you’re not wanting is everything it’s leading to. “There’s nothing you can say or do that he didn’t try already.”

“And who says I want to try?” Langdon challenges.

“You can’t keep your hands off me.”

“You don’t want me to.”

Your mouth snaps shut, your rebuttal stoppered because, well, he isn’t wrong. All you can manage is a weak glare, which only makes him smile. He’s caught you red-handed.

He takes your silence as permission to shift closer to you. He’s reasserted his control over the conversation, over you. “Is this how you made your boyfriend suffer? By giving him a sample, but denying him a taste?” His fingertips tickle the back of your arm as he speaks. His touch sends shivers up your spine. “They have a name for girls like you.”

“Prude?” You’re tempted to roll your eyes.

“ _Tease,_ ” he whispers into your ear. His mouth lingers against the shell, and very slowly, he drags his velveteen lips against it. His hand is resting against your back. “How far did you let him go before you made him stop?”

You close your eyes against the lance of heat targeted between your thighs. It’s been so long since you last felt the feverish craving that was roused by the nearness of a man. His mouth brushing your ear is all your imagination needs before it runs wild with fantasies of him brushing it elsewhere. You imagine that velvety softness dragging warm and slow against your neck, your breasts, your stomach, your thighs, that predatory gaze weighing your reaction as he samples you with his tongue. The burn for him is immediate and overwhelming. You clench a white-knuckled fist against your upper thigh.

“Answer me,” he demands.

“I always made him stop,” you say in a shuddery breath. “I had a rule: when I said _Hail Mary_ , he stopped. It was like my safe word.”

His lip curls in another almost-smile. He’s amused at your choice of safe word. “That doesn’t answer my question. _How far_ did you let him go before you were praying to the Blessed Virgin to stop him?”

“I only let him kiss me.”

“Lie to me one more time. I dare you.”

The threat drags over you with a violence that agitates the heat pricking below your skin. You’re not afraid of punishment, you’re afraid of how viscerally you’re responding to him. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, but you can still feel it on you. You’re burning beneath it. “Sometimes…I’d get carried away.”

“How far away?” He asks gently. His fingertips trace along the edge of your dress until they reach the hem. He massages the material between his thumb and forefinger as he waits for your answer. The back of his hand is resting against your knee.

“This is embarrassing,” you say, hoping he’s feeling merciful.

“I don’t care.” He smooths his hand over your knee. His fingertips tickle the inside of your leg.

“Like I said, it really was just kissing. Mostly. But sometimes when he was on top of me, I’d let him…” Mortified, you struggle to get the words out. You make a nonsensical gesture with your hand. The tilt of his head is minute, but it’s enough for you to know he’s not following. You close your eyes and try to imagine none of this is real. You’re not really saying this. “I think it’s called grinding?”

“You let him rub his cock against you,” Langdon reiterates with cruel bluntness.

“Our clothes stayed on,” you assure him. You are certain any more embarrassment will cause your face to blister. “And it only happened a few times.”

“Regardless,” Langdon imposes. He moves his hand just beneath the hem of your dress until his palm is flush with your thigh. “You let him. You tested your boundaries. _Why?_ ”

“He said he loved me.” You lift your eyes to his, but you immediately wish you didn’t, because you feel and sound foolish. Naive. Delusional. Someone easy to take advantage of. “Sorry, that probably sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.” The way his eyes hold yours, unflinchingly certain and responsive, allows you to believe that he means it. He removes his hand from your thigh so he can drag the back of his fingers against your cheek. His gaze is softer. “You trusted him and he betrayed you. You did nothing wrong.”

You already know that, but you still need to hear it. The pain of betrayal has now ebbed to a mere sting, but it’s enough to pull heat and wet into your eyes. “He left me when he realized I wasn’t going to give in. He didn’t think I was serious. I guess he also thought I could be convinced.”

You throw Langdon’s words back at him. He receives them with an impressed smile. “But now he’s dead, and you’ve resigned yourself to a lifetime of celibacy. What a tragic ending for you both.”

“What choice do I have?”

“Me,” he replies, his hand now combing into your hair, his thumb dragging against the line of your jaw as he leans closer. “I’ll fuck you.”

It’s that word again. You’re supposed to hate the way it sounds, but you _don’t_. You’re supposed to feel disgusted with him, but you aren’t. You’re ensnared by his smell and heat and face. The desire to give in mounts. “I can’t.”

“Seven billion people were erased from this world in the blink of an eye, and you think your God cares about you getting fucked without a ring on your finger?”

“My choices have nothing to do with God. I’m waiting for the person that will commit their life to me. Whoever that person is, I want them to have everything.”

Langdon is still. He doesn’t reply immediately. Instead he stares at you. _Through_ you. The sensation feels as if you’re being read, like he’s reaching into your skull and sifting through the truths for the one lie you know he will not find. You haven’t lied to him. You are, indeed, a good girl.

He smiles and it’s boyish and brilliant and breathtaking. His other hand comes to grip the other side of your head, and he’s cupping your face in both of his warm hands. “You’re perfect,” he says approvingly. “You’re no angel, but you’re close enough. Father is going to _love_ you.”

The fire behind you flares as if it’s alive, agreeing with him. You can almost feel the dancing flames reaching to pull you in. The heat is overwhelming against your back, and your skin struggles to breathe beneath your dress. It’s all so suffocating, but you don’t want to move because his lips are so close to yours. With just the tilt of your chin, you’ll feel them. Warm, full, soft, the hungry press of a man’s tongue against your own.

It takes incredible self-control to deny caving into your hunger. “Is this how you’ve treated everyone before me? If I kiss you, will I fail?”

His sigh is a soft breath against your face. In that brief moment, he looks tired. Annoyance then darkens his gaze, but somehow you know it isn’t annoyance with you. The hand he has against your face is much too gentle to be angry with you. He stands and puts distance between the two of you. Just like that, you can breathe. You shake your head from your stupor and press a palm to your damp forehead.

_What was that?_

There’s a desk in the corner of the room, and you watch as he leans against it. He crosses his arms and the mood shifts. The heat no longer snaps excitedly against your skin. It’s humid. Dense. The fire at your back feels ready to engulf you. You want to leave, and by the looks of it, he’s about to let you.

“Your station has changed,” Langdon continues casually, picking up a conversation you never started. His leonine-heavy gaze returns to you. “As of now, you are no longer expected to take orders from anyone at this Outpost. For the next few days, you are to adapt to your new rank.”

“Hold on a second,” you appeal, still needing a moment to regain your bearings from that almost-kiss. “I’m getting promoted? I’m not a Gray anymore?” Your legs feel weak beneath you when you stand. Your heart is exhausted. Any more excitement and it might actually give out.

“You are neither a Gray, a Purple, or any other absurd class improvised by Wilhemina Venable to feed her tyrannical god complex.”

Your head spins as you try to decipher what he’s suggesting, but any effort is constantly interrupted with the rejoiceful slip of _I passed_ looping through your mind. You aren’t a Gray anymore. You’re just _you_. Free. Safe. “I’m going to The Sanctuary?”

“You’ll go where I think you’ll be safest.”

_That_ brings you to a halt. You pause walking, your eyes locked with his. “What do you mean? Why would _you_ care about my safety? You don’t even know me.”

“True,” he agrees, taking the first step forward to close the distance between you again. You’re beginning to notice a pattern where he seems unable to tolerate speaking outside the area of your personal space. “But I don’t need to know your favorite color, the name of your first pet, or how old you were when you started your period. That information is neither interesting to me nor useful.”

Your eyes narrow, tight with mistrust. “You need me to be useful?”

“You will be. Or at least _part_ of you.” He drags his gaze below your hips to make a point.

You bristle. All desire you feel for him is wrung from you with that one glance. “I will _not_ serve as your sex slave.”

His blue stare is disparaging. He looks bored again, as if you’re discussing business and he’s simply filling you in on last meeting’s notes. “If I wanted a sex slave, do you really think I’d choose the last virgin on Earth for the job?”

_The last virgin on Earth._ You wonder if that’s true. You wonder how he could possibly even _know_ that, and yet you’re positive that he does. Somehow, some way, this man has knowledge that should be impossible. “I think you’d choose someone that poses a challenge, and I think the last virgin on Earth would be exactly that for you.”

His smile is impressed again, but his gaze is harder. Arrogant. He steps forward to tower over you. His blonde hair slips from behind his shoulders to frame the magnificence of his face in a golden halo. “Does figuring me out make you feel smart?”

You aren’t allowed to lie. You haven’t forgotten. “I don’t feel smart, I feel afraid. I don’t understand what you want from me.”

“What I want is your unwavering conviction.” His hands lift to grip your hips and he pulls you closer. The buckle of his belt presses uncomfortably against you, his mouth once more at your ear. “I need you to deny me and mean it. I need your innocence to remain more important to you than _this_.”

He takes your hand and presses your open fingers against his crotch. He grinds himself into your palm so you can feel the fullness of him in your hand. Your fingers twitch with the desire to close around that hardness and heat. Just as he asks, just as you _want_ , you forcibly snatch your hand away and whip it across his face.

The spark of pain smarting against your palm precedes the awareness of what you’ve done. Langdon’s golden hair curtains his face. You can’t read his expression. You can’t see how angry he is. You don’t care. You pull yourself free of him and move backward towards the doors, watching as he straightens to watch you go. His gaze drags against your skin. He smirks as if he approves, as if he’s _satisfied_.

“Why?” Is all you are able to ask. Nothing makes sense. You haven’t felt this confused since the bombs fell and blew your world to smithereens, and yet somehow _you_ were one of the few to live on.

“Because you have been deemed worthy of a _very_ important role.”

“Deemed by _who_?” You demand. Your hands are shaking and you curl them into your dress. “What role?”

“As the bride of the New World.”

You shake your head. It’s all you can do now that your voice has fled you. He’s gauging your reaction with an indifference that communicates his lack of compassion for the turmoil he’s thrown you into.

“No,” you somehow manage to choke out. You don’t know what it is you’re rejecting, you don’t understand what he’s talking about, but whatever it is, you don’t want it. “I don’t accept.”

“Which is exactly why you’ve been chosen,” he interrupts spiritlessly. This conversation is a chore for him. “Your resistance is what I need.”

“But _why?_ ”

“Because I cannot corrupt what is already corrupted. There is no victory to be gained in debasing someone that _wishes_ to be. You are the only one left that can be groomed for the purpose for which you’ve been chosen. You will resist me up until the point where you can’t, and then you will surrender everything to me. It will be through your sacrifice that His will be done.”

You want to argue. You want to press him to clarify what he means by grooming and _His will_. You want to pull open the doors and run from him and never look back---Sanctuary be damned. You do none of these things. There’s no point. Not when you know he’s right. His words feel like prophecy, and he speaks them like he’s divined them himself.

“I’d rather die,” you bite out in a last ditch effort to retain control over your will.

“Spare me the dramatics,” he orders, swinging his arms behind his back and tilting his head like a schoolteacher censuring a bad child. “The others have given me enough of them. I’ve already allowed more from you than anyone else, but my tolerance has worn thin. Lie to me again, and there _will_ be consequences.”

That has you riled up. Your fear is momentarily forgotten and you straighten yourself in preparation to argue. “I don’t answer to you.”

“Is that what you think?” There’s danger simmering below the surface of his collected gaze. A confidence that’s vested in the accoutrements of power. He’s being patient with you, because he knows something you don’t and he’s waiting to see when the ball will drop.

You’ve never felt this around a person before. His presence surpasses what would normally be excused as sheer charisma. He fills the room in a way that stirs, as if his life force is enough to gather even the attention of the air. You either allow yourself to be taken in, or you choke on him.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Michael Langdon,” he reminds you. As if you ever forgot. As if you haven’t been hearing it whispered amongst the others for the last day. “And last I checked, _I’m_ not the one being interviewed.”

He’s standing before you again. You’ve backed as far away as you’re physically able, your back now flush with the door. You glare up into his beautiful face like a person determined to admire the sun. “This doesn’t feel like an interview.”

“You’re right,” he cedes softly. “It’d be more appropriate to call this an introduction.”

“Am I supposed to say it’s nice to meet you?”

“Only if you feel that way.”

“I don’t.”

He considers you for a quiet moment. You’ve been staring at his mouth enough tonight that you can now tell when he’s displeased. The fullness of his lips are drawn taught. Not as soft.

You don’t care if you’ve offended him. He deserves to be. His forwardness and bizarre statements have left you frightened, indignant. Most of all, you’re confused. You have a hundred questions whizzing around your head, and you know you won’t get any answers unless you quit fighting and engage with him the way he wants. “‘Bride of the New World’, what does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“Are you going to keep answering my questions with more questions?”

He smirks, and it’s just shy of a real smile. Your heart murmurs in response, and you hate yourself for it. You hate even more how immediately you flush when you feel his right hand wrap around your left.

“Since you’re so smart, I’ll let you figure it out. You’re the bride,” he begins, and he drags his thumb across your ring finger. “And I’m the New World.”

Surprise comes at you like a baseball bat bludgeoning you in the head. The sensation starts off as a numb tingling in the back of your skull. It collects there until it overflows, spilling down your neck, your spine, through your shoulders, until your entire body is numb with it. You can’t feel the warmth of his hand around yours. You can’t feel your expression. You don’t know what you want to ask, because you’re not sure you’ve accepted what you’ve heard. From the moment you stepped into this room, you’ve felt half-submerged in a fever dream turned nightmare. You decide the best way to wake is to let it run its course.

“The Cooperative decided this?” You ask in a dazed whisper.

The hint of playfulness that’d warmed his gaze is extinguished. You’ve brought up something he doesn’t like talking about. He releases your hand. “No. If The Cooperative had decided this, then it’d be negotiable.”

The resentment that sharpens the bite of his voice almost manages to pull you back to reality. Almost. “You have no say in this either.” It’s a statement, because you know it’s true. The tightness of his mouth confirms it.

And maybe he doesn’t like being read, because he turns away from you and moves to stand before the fireplace.

“If not The Cooperative, then who is forcing me—us—to do this?”

“My Father.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. It bubbles up your throat and slips through your disbelieving smile. _This_ man, the one who strolled in here and took charge as if the world was made for the palm of his hand, was taking orders from his daddy. “Well, maybe you can tell your father that I’m not interested.”

“Come here and tell him yourself.”

You grow quiet and wait for the punchline. It takes several long seconds to pass before you accept that he’s serious. With slow footsteps, you approach his side before the fireplace. He doesn’t even so much as glance at you. His stare is held by the flame. Curious, you also turn your gaze to the fire.

The sensation that shrouds you is overpowering. The darkness that’s introduced doesn’t creep, it charges. You’re plunged into a fear that feels like a bottomless chasm. You’re being eaten, your stomach in your throat. The flames stretch and dance like irritable feelers reaching to pull you in and burn you. You’re a trapped deer staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Tell him,” Langdon invites with collected calm. “Deny him.”

Your words are caught behind what feels like a tennis ball in your throat. Your eyes are locked on the fire. You can’t see anything, but you can _feel_ it. It’s listening, and this terrifies you.

“ _Say it,_ ” Langdon commands, impatience making his voice harsh.

“I won’t marry you. I refuse.” The fire crackles and you flinch. “Even if it means not going to The Sanctuary.”

“You’ll die,” he reminds you.

“Maybe.” You don’t want to agree. You don’t want to accept the likelihood. “But if it means standing by my ideals, then so be it. I accept the consequences.”

At your words, the fire swells to an inferno. You swear the flames reach the ceiling. You throw up your arms, cowering from the enraged heat that threatens to catch you. You stumble backward against Michael, who’s moved to stand behind you. He catches you by the shoulders and takes your right hand in his.

“Don’t be afraid,” he urges, pulling your hand up to the flame.

“Please, stop!” It’s going to burn you. You jerk your arm in an effort to get free, but his grip on you is too tight. He forces you closer to the hearth. His arm is braced around your waist. He leans forward, pressuring you closer to the dancing flames. You clench your eyes closed as he pulls your hand directly into the fire. A feathery warmth envelops your hand. Surprised, you open your eyes just to confirm that your hand is indeed encased in flame.

“How?” You wonder breathlessly.

Langdon’s grip relaxes around your hand, and his ringed fingers tenderly brush over yours. His chin is against your shoulder, his long hair brushing your neck. “He approves of you.”

You weakly shake your head. He’s not making sense, but you can’t concentrate enough to care. You’re enchanted by the sensation tickling your skin, astonished how it can even be happening. You decide you’re dreaming. You must be. “Is this real?”

“Doesn’t it feel real?” He questions softly. The arm he has curled around your waist tightens and he pulls you further against him until your backside is flush with his groin, your legs pressed against his thighs. He shifts his hips so you can feel his hardness nestled between your legs. His warm lips caress the side of your neck.

“Mr. Langdon--”

“Michael,” he corrects.

“Michael…” His mouth brushes your neck and your objection falters. It feels wonderful. Your eyes slip closed so you can concentrate on the velvety drag of his mouth on your skin. You tuck your teeth into your lip to withhold another shivering sigh. You’re under that strange spell again where your senses are overwhelmed with him, and you just can’t get enough. Like an addict who promises to quit but can’t commit, you tell yourself _just a little more_. Then you’ll stop. Just a few more moments, and you’ll push him away.

His hand drops to your hip and slips around to the front of your thigh where he _grabs_ , hoisting you further against him until you’re practically sitting in his lap. Your breath hitches. Heat simmers low in your belly. His chest is weighing against you, and you curl your back against him. The action tilts your hips forwards and you can now feel the full press of his manhood between your thighs. Your instinct is to rub yourself against it, but you bite your lip and resist. You know better. “ _Wait.”_

“I want you, Caroline.”

It’s the first time you’ve heard him say your name. He makes it sound beautiful, like poetry, and you’re troubled by how badly you wish to hear it again. “I don’t want this.”

“What did I tell you about lying to me?” He asks with silken menace, his hand dragging low across your abdomen, his teeth nipping your skin in teasing punishment.

Blistering pain explodes around the hand you still have partly in the fire. You scream and pull it out, but the excruciating pain is still there. Michael releases you and you stagger away from him, away from the fireplace, clutching your seared hand.

“What did you do?”

His cerulean gaze is pitiless as he stalks after you. “I warned you. I told you there’d be consequences, and you accepted them. Or was that another lie?”

You grit your teeth. Again, he’s right. You did accept the consequences. You forsook his proffered Sanctuary in order to protect your ideals. You just never imagined that the consequences he threatened would be this inconceivable. The fire had lashed out at you on purpose. You don’t know how it’s possible, but you know it’s the truth. What just happened hadn’t been an accident. His eyes confirm it.

You’re afraid again. You just want to get away, but this time you’re not sure what you’re running from. A few minutes ago, you would’ve claimed you were running from a man. Now, you’re not so sure. Your hand stings and you glance behind him at the fire as an irrational level of terror numbs you from the waist down. When your back hits the door, you scramble for the handle with weak hands. This time, you _will_ be leaving. Your fingers are wedged between the doors, ready to pull them open, when he speaks.

“There is nowhere you can run. He will not yield. Not when he’s decided he wants you,” he says, returning his hands to behind his back in a way that leaves his body language non-threatening. You’re not fooled.

“You’re insane,” you accuse. Your voice quakes and you don’t care. You shake your head as if you can cast off the foreboding that clings to you like a cage. “Leave me alone.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” Although he’s steps behind you, somehow his voice is in your ear again, a sultry whisper carrying a dangerous promise. “Your fate has been decided and there is no getting away from it. You don’t have that freedom. You wondered why you survived, and now you have your answer. You’ve been gifted with the one thing that so many waste their lives trying to find.”

His words manage to carry through the buzz of panic in your head to recapture your attention. You meet his eyes so he knows that you’re listening. “What?”

“Purpose.” The word is a sugary drip of honey that lands stale. “You should be happy.”

Despite your distress, you still manage to feel provoked. _Happy_. That sentiment died along with the rest of the world. You had no one left that cared about you for any reason other than how _useful_ you could be, and this man was clearly no different. Though his motivations were still shrouded in mystery, he made it quite clear that he only viewed you as a tool to be exploited for a grander purpose. A purpose for which he expected you to feel _happy_ about. A purpose which robbed you of choice, of your freedom. You would rather have died with your family.

“Is that what you are? Happy?”

Your words bring him up short, and for the first time all evening his sureness wavers. You can see it in the subtle shift of his expression where his eyes soften beneath the reminder of some unseen injury. Your words have brushed over an unhealed wound and the throb of memory has resurfaced something he’s tried to bury.

For the first time since his arrival at the Outpost, you’ve come face-to-face with the real Michael Langdon, and you feel something inside you resonate with the reawakening of his loss. His quiet speaks volumes, but you are stubborn to ignore the sympathy that unfurls like a sleeping flower in your chest. You haven’t forgotten your fear, and the bloom of feeling you might have for him wilts beneath the overcast of his malicious dominion.

His will is poison, and you’re scared to breathe.

“I want nothing to do with you.” These are the last words you speak before you leave. As you rush back to your room, you clasp a hand around your crucifix and pray that you’re at least better at lying to yourself than you are to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter. Like many, I fell absolutely head-over-heels in LOVE with Cody Fern this past season of AHS, and I couldn't wait to get my fingers on him (on my keyboard, anyway...). Please let me know what you think of this chapter. This is my first Character/Reader fic, so it's pretty new territory for me. I hope you guys don't mind that I gave 'you' a name (I find myself really thrown off when reading 'Y/N'). 
> 
> Please leave kudos and a review! Share with me your thoughts/opinions/theories/rants and praise for Apocalypse/anything!!!
> 
> Until next chapter!  
> AVE SATANAS


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